The Morning Of
by phollie
Summary: And Shion, with all the raw, untapped grace of something exiled and reborn, says, "I love you." Nezushi. K.


It's been a weird week. I've been feeling really heavy, really downtrodden, and there was a horrifying few days in which I _couldn't write anything_. This picked me back up, though. I always feel human again after I finish a story.

I own nothing. The lyrics are from Snow Patrol's "Signal Fire", otherwise known as one of the greatest songs ever written.

* * *

><p>soundtrack: halving the compass - helios<p>

prompt: 3. love

**.the morning of**

/

_the perfect words never crossed my mind_

'_cause there was nothing in there but you_

/

Shion awakes to a chilled room and even chillier silence, and Nezumi's gone.

For a terrifying moment, Shion jumps to the inevitable, most horrific of outcomes: Nezumi has left him for good in this downtrodden city, left him to fend for his own in favor of a brighter somewhere without him to hold him back. It's not a lack of trust that has him scurrying out of bed and booking it for the door, tripping over carelessly tossed books and spare dishes; no, it's the fact that at the end of the day – or the beginning, in this case – Shion wouldn't blame him in the slightest.

Part of it, he thinks, is that he's grown to expect this sort of morning to come, in which he'd blink his bleary eyes back to life and not have Nezumi, taking up more than his fair share of the bed and completely unashamed of it, be the first thing he sees upon waking. It's a fear that's become far too deep-seated for his health. In fact, everything that stems from Nezumi seems to have that effect on him, and Shion, still very much a newcomer to sentiments outside of numerals and percentages, isn't sure if that's a good thing or not.

He gets the vague idea that such a feeling should scare him; but Nezumi doesn't scare him, never could, not even if he sprouted horns and barbed wings and other makings of monsters, and so Shion decides that, no, this feeling doesn't scare him. It simply…overwhelms him. Yes, that's more like it.

Then again, he's been so _paranoid_ lately. Sometimes his nerves jump without warning, and Shion can feel his very ribs constricting as if being plucked and tightened with pliers. There are times when he feels like a piece of machinery malfunctioning, only for him to remember in stark realism that he's far more human than he gives himself credit for. Nezumi, for all his fire and ashes, makes sure to remind him of that in the quietest of ways – a dark, searching glance cast over the top of a book held between prim, white hands, or a ghost of a touch at the back of Shion's shoulder as he passes by. Sometimes he speaks in rhyme on his particularly secretive days, and Shion is left to sift through his crisp syllables and iambic pentameter while acutely aware of just how fast his heartbeat thrums in his ears the whole time.

Shion ambles down the hall, flings open the exit, and is met with all the majesty and glory of early morning. Everything is ten shades too bright like an overexposed photograph, and his eyes water at the abrupt shift from darkness to blinding light. Panting, he looks around, leaning on the doorframe to steady his legs that are still wobbly from just having woken.

And then there's Nezumi, shrouded in a white sheet and washed in a flood of golden light, as beautiful as he is unreachable. His hair sticks to his face and neck in dark, sweat-damp strands, and his gaze is fixed on something that Shion can't see. He'll call it infinity – he likes the sound of that. It sounds grand and bright, silver and gold just like how the sun paints Nezumi's eyes. It's the sort of word that would have never crossed his mind in No. 6; if anything, it would have been pressed and flattened beneath the weight of its own flightiness, chained to the earth and unable to fly. It's a wild and irrational word. It's Nezumi.

Because Nezumi has always been a wild and irrational thing, hasn't he? From the cut of his jaw to the soft, unwashed sweep of his hair as it plasters itself to his skin; from his hardened elegance to his feral charm – all of this, Shion knows, is both intentional and accidental. Every line of his body is carefully crafted to inspire and woo a ravenous audience, both on and offstage, just as every elegant sweep of his hand as he speaks of unrequited love and vengeful phantoms is meant to convey a message, to pierce the conscience and linger like cobwebs in an attic.

But it's his accidental beauty that Shion can't let go of. It's difficult to even put to words, he thinks, but it's tangible enough to catch him by the wrist and hold him in place. It's in the way Nezumi's eyes soften when he reads his favorite sections from _Julius Caesar_ or _As You Like It_, only to flash in impatience when Shion spills soup on the couch and has to clean it up himself because "you'll just make it worse". It's in the way he drapes his hair over his shoulder after getting out of the shower, water droplets dangling from his jaw before dripping onto Shion's forearm as he leans over and hands him a cup of tea. It's in the way he sleeps, breathes, and feels.

There's that "infinity" word again.

Nezumi turns his head to look at him. The sunlight, god, it could just about swallow him whole. There's a feverish glow about his cheeks and fogging over his eyes, coloring them an ashy, liquid steel, and for a moment, Shion is about to ask him if he's come down with something, if he's feeling unwell, if there's anything he can do for him, until –

"I feel wild today, Shion."

Nezumi's voice is hoarse but soft, weak but pure. It makes Shion's stomach ache with a feeling he doesn't quite know what to label, and so label he doesn't. He simply feels it swelling and swaying deep inside of him as he watches Nezumi turn back to the scenery before them. Shion doesn't think he could look away for a moment, not even if the world was on fire and fit to implode.

"I feel like…" Nezumi's eyes lid dreamily as a soundless little laugh puffs past his lips. He wraps the sheet tighter around his shoulders. Is he cold? Shion doesn't ever want him to be cold. "Like I could just spit fire at the world and watch everything burn. Like I was born of earth and marble and stone, built for beautiful destruction."

There's a clenching in Shion's chest that speaks of the moment just before one starts to cry. But there's nothing to cry about, is there? There's only Nezumi, the sun, and the earth. In this moment, there's nothing else.

And Shion, with all the raw, untapped grace of something exiled and reborn, says, "I love you."

Nezumi closes his eyes. His mouth parts softly, every muscle of his face relaxing for one beautiful moment, before he loosens his grip on the sheet around his shoulders and leans back against the brick wall with a quiet laugh. His eyelashes are long and dark. Shion wants to kiss them, wants to stroke them with the very tips of his fingers and memorize each and every one.

"You say that like you mean it," Nezumi murmurs. Eyes still closed, he tips his head back and lets it loll to the side; at this angle, Shion can make out the high arch of his cheekbone pressing up beneath his skin, elegant, refined, and clean. Why the sight of it makes Shion's throat tighten as if he might cry, he doesn't know.

There are a number of things that he wants to say, stupid, mindlessly honest things like, _I do mean it, I always mean it; _or, _It makes sense in my heart, even if it doesn't make sense in my head_; or, _Sometimes, Nezumi, I wake up in the middle of the night and you're really close, a lot closer than you were when I fell asleep, and your hair is loose and unbound and I want to run my fingers through it because it looks so soft – _you_ look so soft, and you'd probably scoff and roll your eyes if I ever told you that, but really…you're not as callous as you want me to think you are. You're beautiful. You're beautiful and wild, and if I could bind myself to you just like we're bound to our own scars, I would. I _would.

But Shion, too absorbed in Nezumi's silence, says none of these things. All he does – all he _can_ do, at this point – is watch the sharp Adam's apple of Nezumi's throat bob in a swallow as he huffs out a hoarse laugh and opens his eyes just enough to look at Shion, sleepy and seraphic and absolutely _crippling_. "That's just like you, you know," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to the ground as a soft smile plays about the corner of his mouth. "You always have to make things…_so_ difficult."

Shion furrows his brow, concerned. "Difficult?"

Nezumi says nothing in response. After a moment of quiet contemplation, he lifts his hand to wind a lock of Shion's hair around his finger, then to stroke shakily along his temple before cupping his cheek. His palm feels clammy; he's unwell.

"Come on," Shion says, gently taking hold of Nezumi's wrist to guide his hand away, regardless of how his nerves mourn the loss of the other's feverish touch. "Let's…let's get you back inside, Nezumi, okay? You can lie down for a while, and I can make you some tea, and we can just…"

His voice trails off when Nezumi breathes out a half-gone laugh and sways weakly on his feet. Shion catches him just in time as he slumps against his chest, pliant and soft like warmed wax, and Shion wastes no time guiding him inside, murmuring soft promises of warm soup and soft pillows as he shuffles them down the hall and back to their corner of the world.

Nezumi's so warm he might as well have carried the sun in with him.


End file.
